A Dependence on Vices
by DelightfullyHuman
Summary: He didn't know what he would do if John ever strayed away from him.


It was going on three years. Three years since Sherlock had last felt the prick of a needle in his arm and the rush of the drugs in his system. For the past two years, he had marked the day to himself and allowed a smile and a quiet congratulations. Another year clean.

He hadn't done it on his own. He had gotten plenty of help from the cases he got, taking his mind off the feeling that he wasn't good enough. He had gotten help from the nicotine patches, which had focused his racing thoughts.

Help had also come in the form of Gregory Lestrade, who had arrested him time and again for possession in the past, but who had come to be a good friend. A good friend who had bullied him through detox and supported him through recovery.

Help came in the form of Mycroft Holmes, who had found him the flat and the job and had understood his struggle on a level that only another Holmes could.

Help, in its most potent form, came through John Watson, army doctor, flat mate, and friend. Even a year after his last hit, Sherlock still missed the rush and the pleasure and the feeling of peace the drugs had given him. But once John had joined him in 221B, a natural peace had begun to take over, and the cravings began to subside.

Just like the drugs, John was always there, available at the very drop of a hat.

Just like the drugs, John could make him focus.

Unlike the drugs, John provided Sherlock with conversation, and support.

Unlike the drugs, John loved Sherlock as much as Sherlock loved him.

Whenever Sherlock needed a fix, he would text John, hover, curl up next to him in the middle of the night and try to match their breathing. But he would never fully admit to John how much he adored him. He was a Holmes; there was always that aloof air and that secret fear of sentiment.

He never thought that his reluctance to say three simple words would drive John away from him.

John flirted, and Sherlock knew it. But he also knew that John would never cheat, would never flirt seriously. It still made him jealous.

What if? He thought. What would he do if John ever strayed away from him? He knew that humans needed touch, needed reassurance. As much as he tried, though, he couldn't bring himself to touch John, to fully enjoy John's touch. He couldn't say the words that John needed so desperately to hear.

He loved John, he truly did. And he was foolish enough to believe that John would see it despite the way Sherlock shied away from John's hand and his words of affection.

He was a _Holmes_. He was raised on the dependence on vices, like Mummy's drinking problem. Love, and touch, and gentle words had no place, and caring was a disadvantage.

Nothing, however, could stop him from loving John, from obsessing over John and his habits. Even when he had to pull his thoughts in line to in turn obsess over a case, John was still there.

He didn't know what he would do if John ever strayed away from him.

Sherlock had hung back one night, choosing to stay in and concentrate on a case instead of going out with John and Lestrade for drinks. He lay for hours on the sofa, even after solving the case, thinking, waiting for John.

He had never told John that he loved him. John had told him time and again, but Sherlock had never reciprocated. It scared him, struck a strange sort of nostalgic fear in his heart. Strange, how three simple words could strike such trepidation in the heart of man.

But.

Maybe tonight would be the night.

Maybe tonight he would do it, when John was too drunk to even remember properly.

John came home at four thirty in the morning, stumbling through the door of 221B and reeking of alcohol, cheap car freshener, and a woman's perfume.

One glance told Sherlock everything he needed to know. John hadn't even tried to hide it.

Sherlock felt his heart dissolve into the pit of his stomach as he stood to face John. They regarded each other for a moment, hazel eyes against glassy brown.

"I'm sorry,"

"You aren't,"

John paused before responding.

"You don't love me,"

"I-"

"No, Sherlock. I'm just an experiment to you. You don't say it, you don't show it. You aren't in it for anything but a good laugh!"

"I love you,"

"Don't go saying it now! It's been done."

"So you don't want me anymore." It wasn't a question. "I understand."

Sherlock brushed past John, the smell of the woman's perfume making him want to vomit. He took up his jacket and his shoes and was gone before John could even realize what had been done.

Sherlock wandered the streets of London for hours, going from the nicer, well lit parts of town to the whitewashed buildings abandoned by the government and by hope until he found his old haunts and his old friends. Quick, quiet greetings and a brief change of hands.

It had been almost three years since the last time Sherlock had last felt the prick of a needle in his arm and the rush of the drugs in his system.

He had missed it.

_Where are you? –JW_

_I'm sorry! –JW_

_I was drunk, I didn't mean any of it. –JW_

_Please come home. –JW_

_I love you. –JW_

He missed it all.


End file.
